


"What would Miranda Say?"

by law_nerd



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/law_nerd/pseuds/law_nerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit of seduction. Also proof of concept -- I hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"What would Miranda Say?"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Needled_Ink_1975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needled_Ink_1975/gifts).



> **A/N1:** My deepest thanks to **needled_ink1975**, who has an irresistible ability to send my muses dashing off madly in all directions. They return (usually) footsore, filthy and covered in scrapes and contusions – weeks after her last romp, Erato is still complaining about the burrs in her hair. Sometimes though, if I’m lucky enough, they return with gifts. Terpsichore brought this one – unusual for her to bring words. Perhaps, in these, there is a dance.
> 
> **A/N2:** My thanks also to **thefutilitarian** for – among other things – her extensive and helpful comments, and to my HS for all things beta.

She'd noticed, of course, that Miranda had noticed her. So much of her life was occupied with watching Miranda, analyzing Miranda, trying to guess Miranda's needs, or wants, or whims and satisfy them almost before Miranda herself was aware what they were. She'd thought she might be losing it at first, might finally be giving in to the strain of being as close as possible to perfect for a woman to whom perfection itself was boring commonplace.

But then she noticed Miranda was looking at her differently. The "My god! could you be more incompetent?" look had disappeared after the first few months. She'd learned to accept the "That will do" look as high praise. She'd only seen that look tip over to "You will do" twice. She often found herself treating her memory of Miranda's reaction to her almost supernatural efficiency like a worry stone: a warm, smooth comfort she could hold against more usual disappointments. This new look, though, was one she could not categorize.

The first few times she noticed it, there was an evaluating quality about Miranda's expression. A slight quirk of the eyebrows, perhaps. Whatever Miranda had been contemplating, or wondering about, changed the first time she met the appraising glance and managed to hold eye-contact for a moment before she had to look down. She was not certain what Miranda had seen in her expression. Miranda rarely seemed to care how others looked at her. In the universe of fashion, Miranda's was the only important gaze. Yet after that meeting, she had started to feel watched in ways she had not before.

She was not completely surprised to notice that feeling one night at Miranda's townhouse. Normally she'd tip-toe in, place the book gently on its table, hang Miranda's dry cleaning, and tip-toe out. Habit carried her through placing the book, hanging the laundry – then habit failed and she looked around before leaving. Miranda was standing in the doorway to the study, gazing at her over the rims of her reading glasses.

This time the eyebrow quirk was an invitation, and suddenly she understood – she knew what Miranda wanted, perhaps even needed, and she knew that this was not a whim. Stepping across the foyer was a matter of seconds, but she found in that more than enough time to consider her own desires, and to acknowledge to herself that, yes, she wanted this too.

The kiss they shared in the doorway was tentative, it asked more questions than it answered. The kisses between doorway and sofa promised answers to come. She found herself wondering, later that night, half asleep in Miranda’s bed, whether those answers would ever be given. Indeed whether she, or Miranda, would ever speak the questions.

Their love-making had been silent. She had started to ask … she no longer remembered what that original question might have been. It died with the slight tightening of Miranda’s brow, the faint down turn of her lip. Miranda’s displeasure at the potential of speech was clear. She had not minded, the most urgent questions could all be asked with gesture and expression: may I; is this okay; could you; more; please. Her orgasm lingered with the extra time it took her to relax, one muscle at a time, slowly, dissipating her release in soft murmurs rather than words or cries.

She knew Miranda thought she talked too much, too freely. Lying in that decadently comfortable bed, with Miranda’s warmth against her back, she found herself accepting that if silence was the price for this, she would pay it joyfully. As long as they could continue to be together, Miranda need say nothing at all.


End file.
